Unmasked- Act 3- Issue 5- Revisionist History
by Thedude2222
Summary: A Gotham novel detailing the end of the legend of Batman.


**Issue 27**

 **Revisionist History**

Clem Dodd stood before the packed city council meeting a proud self-educated member of the Ku Klux Klan. His clean, pressed t-shirt bore the smiling, triumphant face of his favorite race car driver. Near the front row his skinny, bucktoothed wife Sheila held his half full spit bottle expectantly as she shushed their long line of rambunctious hell spawn. Towards the back of the hall cameras rolled with mechanical eagerness ready to capture every word that could be parsed and examined over the next seventy-two hour news cycle.

"This country," Clem began confidently, "was founded on principles of freedom that could never be taken away from its people. One of them there idears was uh freedom of speech. This measure against hate speech the council is considering passing today would destroy that liberty for everyone in our great city of Gotham. See it's easy to turn away from the truth. The path of least resistance is always the path where you accept life like it is and go on believing what you want without another thought for it.

To be honest you can't actually limit speech cuz speech is really just idears. Someday you might wake up and realize the speech you outlawed as hate not long ago was just common damn sense. If this here librul media don't wanna believe me they got some negro up next to tell you the exact same thing. Even them treacherous coloreds understand the importance of these rights.

Now no matter how shifty and smelly and untrustworthy you might find ol' T-bone or whatever the hell his name is I urge the council to listen to his party of rabble rousers on this…and only this," Clem added lowering his notecards and abandoning the podium. Sparse applause peppered the audience as Daquan Arnold approached the stage as camera flashes began again. A fierce supporting member of the Black Panther Party, Daquan wore a tight black leather jacket over his lanky frame. His perfectly rounded afro added another three inches to his appearance.

"No surprise we let them white men talk first," Daquan complained, "Since the beginning of this country it's always the white man who gets taken care of first. The rest of us just hang back hoping for some scraps off the table. That racist hillbilly and his cousin-wife would stand up here and talk about poverty, violence, and crime in the black community like all those issues couldn't be laid at the foot of whites.

For the majority of this country's existence they held us back. They told us we can't read, can't vote, can't make our own decisions. Then they stand aside and wonder why people have problems. Despite this ignorant fool's views he actually gets it right about the law against inflammatory speech. This is the kind of law that would immediately be used to discredit and denounce any minorities who find the courage to speak out against the institutional oppression this country continues to support.

They say they want to make the world better, safer. I'm here to tell you it won't ever be safe. The fight against tyranny is a never ending war where good people are lost and innocent blood must be shed. There isn't peace or equality in jailing someone for opening their mouths no matter how much their ideas upset you. In closing vote against this measure because I guarantee you won't like the results." Applause came from other sections of the audience this time. Next up was Jane a young woman with no specific affiliation with any organization just a concerned citizen.

"My whole life people called me a freak. They said I'd never amount to anything or be anybody. They said I'd burn in Hell because I fell in love with a woman once. The thing is I'm not special and no one knows me. I'm not famous or popular. I'm just a person who's tired of how we treat each other in this country. The last thing I want to do is hurt anyone with this measure but quite honestly I'm fed up with the behavior that never seems to change.

I don't know if this will solve the problem but can't we at least try? Don't those people who are verbally abused deserve somewhere safe to live? Don't they deserve the chance to be happy like the rest of us?" Jane had more to say but was interrupted by angry boos and hisses from all sides. In the second row a Klansman drew his thumb across his throat threateningly. Before the crowd could build real anger towards her Clem's wife Sheila had some disagreement with one of the Black Panthers and all hell broke loose.

A punch was thrown like the first shot of a revolution and the audience swiftly consumed the show which in turn became the show themselves. Chairs flew, arms were bitten, and every shade of hair both artificial and authentic was pulled. For a moment Jane watched stoically as the melee encompassed the entire room then she slipped off through the back discovering an exit from the raucous town hall meeting.

Stopping at the curb she watched enormous armored SECURE vans rolling by on patrol of the untamable streets. Ghostlike she disappeared into a sea of fellow unknown travelers. The next day the Gotham City Council unanimously rejected the hate speech measure once the building had somewhat recovered from the damage done by its own citizens.

Jane Doe was a cipher. A cipher is defined in a few different ways. 1) A combination of symbolic letters 2) A method of transforming a text in order to conceal its message 3) One that has no weight, worth, or influence, a non-entity. The last definition fit her perfectly. Unfortunately Jane couldn't remember when or how she became a nobody which played out logically because if she did she couldn't have been a cipher after all.

To the outside world Jane seemed to be a human without skin like a diagram in an anatomy textbook. Contrary to appearances she had the same type of skin as the average woman only it was entirely transparent. Her power, if it could be called that, was an advanced form of observation and mimicry. Through careful study Jane could essentially steal a person's image and body type altering her own features to perfectly reflect whoever she desired. Beyond basic shape shifting Jane took on the victim's personality, mannerisms, and feelings usually resulting in the murder of her model.

Often this complete absorption of another self led to confusion and pain while the murders and crime typically led to run ins with Batman. Like nearly every villain in Gotham she knew the inside of Arkham Asylum intimately. Sadly Jane often found herself used by other villains in their master plans and regularly felt like a victim. Despite a rather competent consciousness Jane retained no ambition or motivation as a cipher.

No positive or negative emotions existed in her unless she assumed someone else which gave Damian Wayne an incredibly uncomfortable feeling at their initial meeting. She volunteered to act as a recruiter for the Militia consisting of two main goals. First she was tasked with tracking down any rogue elements who could aid or damage the Militia. Second she was to acquire any weapons or technology that could benefit the organization.

One afternoon not long after the town meeting Jane found herself back at the unmarked store she frequented called Ostensibly Etienne. Owned by a man who may or may not have been born with the name Etienne Guiborg the shady shop boasted a slowly changing selection of antiquities and baubles. The old man also operated in the black market under the alias of The Dealer. When he wasn't managing his personal dark cult he sold collectibles and memorabilia to Gotham's rogues.

A scrap of tattered cape from a long passed hero or a stylish but unconventional weapon from a villain could be found in Etienne's collection. Fondly Jane scoured his special goods kept in a secret room toward the rear of the store. Picking through a bin of inoperational time devices Jane tried to imagine a purpose for each broken clock or hourglass. She currently mimicked the life of a pretty, young college activist she caught protesting outside city hall.

Suddenly her eyes lit on a smooth, shiny edge of something that didn't seem to belong in the clutter. Uncovering the strange item revealed a curvy, gold djinn's lamp covered in a layer of dust. Understandably Jane began to run the grime from it when a thick plume of smoke poured out of it. To her surprise the smoke began to coalesce into the form of an older woman adorned in silks and clattering clashing jewels.

"Uh hello," Jane greeted unsure of the situation.

"Hello," the woman responded. Jane said nothing for a moment as they stared at each other blankly.

"Are you a djinn?" she asked the obvious question.

"Yep," the woman answered uninterested.

"What's your name?"

"Rachel," she replied and Jane remained quiet examining her some more.

"You don't talk much," Jane observed and Rachel shrugged.

"When you go a thousand years without conversation you get used to the quiet I guess. So do you want your wishes or what?"

"Hmm," Jane thought, "Can you make it so the world was more considerate of people's feelings? Like from the beginning?" Jane was drawing on the activist's desires she currently felt.

"Wait, are you talking about political correctness? The policing of ideas and speech based on the subjective personal judgments on what is and isn't offensive to others?" Rachel clarified.

"It doesn't sound so good when you put it like that."

"Could I interest you in previewing your wish to see some alterations it will make to the timeline?" the djinn urged.

"I didn't know you could do that," Jane said casually.

"Normally we don't," she explained, "but I'm not an evil djinn so I really don't want to be blamed for the state of the world after this. I really think you should see it first. Just because you can doesn't mean you should." Jane nodded and with a snap of Rachel's fingers they vanished into the altered timestream.

The Dawn of Humans

Broknag sat outside his cave carefully stoking the seductive flame that rose from a jumbled pile of sticks and dried weeds. His best friend and cousin Nur reclined next to him making plans and dreams based on the new discovery.

"First thing is cave chicks. We can make shiny stuff from this…fire you called it?" Nur asked impatiently, "Cave chicks love shiny stuff. Then food, can you imagine? I'll be the best cook that's ever been. No more raw rabbit haunches for us."

"Mmm," Broknag mumbled caught in the hypnotic light.

"I bet we could even charge people for it or for the technique at least," Nur continued rambling as a group of cave people approached from the darkness of the camp.

"Broknag, we got some complaints about whatever is going on over here," the cave chief began, "This light is bothering some of the others. Hutar has to get up before sunrise to commute to the fishing hole."

"Not to mention the Cave Owner's Association keeps explicit restrictions on things like this," an older cavewoman named Mukmi complained, "You chiseled your X into that rock contract like the rest of us. Also this grey stuff coming off it is floating towards Gip's cave and I heard him cough once. You know he's asthmatic!"

"This is deershit, Chief, and you know it! There's no telling what we could do with this. Did you feel how hot it is?" Nur protested passionately.

"I can share it," Broknag generously offered, "Show everyone how to make it. They just need to gather dry wood and grass."

"How is Gip going to do that? He can't get around on his leg," Mukmi asked like she'd won.

"I'll do it for him," Broknag declared.

"You just don't get it, do you?" Mukmi responded, "It's not about doing it for him. It's about how Gip would feel. What kind of cave people would we be if everything we did wasn't entirely inclusive?"

"I'm going to jump off a fucking cliff," Nur threatened dejectedly but Broknag put a hand on his cousin's shoulder.

"No Nur, they're right. It just wouldn't be fair to everyone else. We'll get along fine without it. We made it this far, didn't we?" Barefoot and soon to be cold once more Brognak kicked dirt smothering the history he so happily and unwittingly made. Completely unaware of the conversation Gip died later that night of exposure.

Year 1096 outside Nicaea, Beginning of the first Crusade

A Turkish soldier approached the general who sits on horseback watching the approach of the Catholic army from the north. His armor is unadorned with trophies or commendations so as not to demean the station of the officers and infantry below him in rank.

"General, you must call off the ambush," the overweight soldier huffed struggling to catch his breath after the long climb.

"What is the meaning of this? Get back to your post. We must defend our people against the oncoming invaders," the general replied judiciously.

"But sir these men are Christians. They have every right to practice their religion. Have you read the Bible? It promotes peace and forgiveness. We should meet them as friends and show them we have mutual respect for all religious teachings," the soldier advised.

"My goodness, what an awful mistake we've nearly made. I see now you're right. My hateful, negative assumptions almost cost us our very humanity," the general swelled with regret, "Besides how bad can a guy named Peter the Hermit really be? Yes we will meet them in the open field unarmored and weaponless to show them how much we care about others. Surely you've saved countless lives this day, soldier."

Year 1831, Northern Illinois

"Just quit talking, Pastor, and we won't have to do this," Franklin said as he secured the noose around the holy man's neck.

"How can I do that? What's going on in this country is barbaric. Those people don't deserve to be bought, sold, and worked to death in the field. Our lord and savior demands that we respect human life," Pastor Nesbitt proclaimed to the crowd from the gallows.

"They ain't people. That's where you're wrong," Franklin's pregnant wife Maggie countered, "We got laws again' this kind uh talk. We ain't about to stand here and listen to you malign the good name of the South." The crowd cheered supportively.

"Please, we can be better than this. We must help these people and make amends for the horrible atrocities we've committed upon them," the pastor begged but Franklin shook his head.

"Tell it to the man upstairs," Maggie pointed to the sky as Franklin pulled the lever. Pastor Nesbitt felt the floor drop beneath him and he fell just far enough for the rope to cleanly snap his neck. Everyone went home feeling pretty good about themselves and left him for the indiscriminate, colorblind crows.

Year 1943, Kaiserwald Concentration Camp, Occupied Latvia

The work day was in full swing when the always cheery but starving Latvian mailman delivered a stained, crumpled letter to the imprisoned workers inside the dreary Kaiserwald facility. The mostly Jewish laborers gathered around a bespectacled man carefully unfolding the message. It was a response from the United States finally.

Dear less fortunate peoples of Kaiserwald,

We received your post from a few years ago and after a not quite recent cultural misunderstanding with the virtuous nation of Japan (we decided to gift them the state of California) we just recently had time to deliberate on your request for immediate help. Our humble country has always strived towards a state of harmony (especially with our much loved mother nation of England). That being said we have decided to reject their and subsequently your request for help against the rising power of Hitler's Germany.

After stringent debate it was decided we simply don't know enough about European culture to make moral distinctions against what may very well be the natural evolution of Germany in its strident nationalism. Please accept our deepest condolences in this trying time for Europe. As a side note we urge you to try empathizing with the Nazi's struggle for world domination. This hasn't been an easy war for the fascists either.

Your friend,

America

P.S. If you've got anything to buy or sell get at us!

The workers turned away discouraged and some began to weep. After all they still had four hours of work remaining and it was only a Monday.

Upon further review Jane decided against her wish or any wish for that matter returning Rachel and her djinn lamp back into the bargain bin from which they came. The next day Jane decided to shed her personae and experience the world.

She became a teacher eagerly shaping the minds of those who would control the future.

She became a trust fund brat with money far outweighing sense. Travelling the world she observed how pathetic and ineffectual its people were. Anything was available for purchase.

She became a pilot for the military. At twenty thousand feet above the surface of the Earth she studied the texture of cottony clouds just below her million dollar war machine. On orders from a small voice emanating from a tiny speaker she dropped a payload of bombs onto a small desert village completely safe from retaliation in her metallic chariot. Boom!

She became an addle minded widow who owned a derelict house by the ocean. Years before her husband, a commercial fisherman by trade, was lost at sea during a momentous storm. The next week a suited man arrived at her door from the insurance company. In technical words he explained the value of her husband's life on a piece of paper cutting a check for $200,000.

Eventually her children moved out and she was left with a small flower bed and a bridge simulator on her computer. She watched her remaining friends expire under the tremendous force of age against body. On Tuesday night she won one hundred and fifty dollars at Bingo. Later she sat by the phone wondering who she could tell when her children didn't answer.

She became a newscaster smiling into the camera as tragedy casually rolled across a teleprompter. Under a thick layer of makeup conducive to the studio lights he sensationalized the commonality of human experience and received compensation based on the premise of entertainment. No guilt troubled his masked sleep on a plush, five figured mattress.

His co-anchor, a neurotic pill popping woman, constantly interrupted broadcasts which thankfully drew attention away from his own alcoholism. Their local weatherman attended a local cult focusing on celebrities while poorly concealing his affinity for high class prostitutes. Their station's ratings constantly tanked due to an audience as apathetic as they were.

No one seemed to care about the news of billionaire celebrities producing additional children or what local company might scam them on heating and cooling repairs. Every morning before heading to the studio he checked his 401k and the number of days left to his retirement. Six painstakingly long years remained and he knew he wouldn't make it.

Staring at the crows' feet around his eyes in the car mirror he doesn't see the jogger in the middle of his windshield until it's too late. Damaged but drivable his luxury sedan doesn't so much as brake as he rounds the next corner. He throws the empty vodka bottle out at the next gas station and tells the body shop manager a deer ran out in front of him. It doesn't make news.

She became a coal miner at the last remaining dig site outside of Gotham. Eleven hour days in the darkness of the pit gave way to a miserable home life in a squalid trailer with a lazy, unemployed girlfriend who couldn't be bothered to take care of her children from a previous husband much less herself. Bills continually went unnoticed in the clutter on the kitchen table.

He was lanky but strong and severely depressed. Without a father he grew up lacking much guidance from his mother who was a good, honest woman. She worked relentlessly at a small diner and occasional nights at a lonesome Laundromat. Cancer took her at sixty-six spread through her lungs and throat.

The miner owned a dog that meant everything to him. Casper loved people especially kids and riding next to him in his pickup truck. The dog would wait before entering and exiting a room. Instead of following his owner Casper would whine waiting for an invitation. Casper got off his leash one day and was struck by a passing car that didn't stop.

In the middle of the road the man sat holding his dying, best friend weeping like the end of the world had just begun. Realistically it was only the end of Casper's world as the dog struggled to kiss his master's face one last time but broken bones and internal bleeding denied any possibility of that. He wouldn't allow himself another dog after that heartbreak.

On his way into the mines he would run his hands along the jagged dirt wall to feel the dangerous pressure from the world above them. Threatened by the renewable energy market his boss could only suggest pay cuts and layoffs while sitting on his hands and the unwanted fuel. The entire business structure grew unsound as investors began to pull out of the field.

His coworkers became like family down under the dirt always ready to help and look out for each other. The risk of death cemented them together in a way most other industries didn't. It may have been his potential they dug out every day, shipped to a factory, and burned to power the lives of others though he never felt particularly good at anything else.

One day he looked up from the backbreaking work to see his friend Bobby smiling further up the shaft. Apparently the fun loving guy made some joke he didn't hear and at that moment the roof collapsed burying Bobby instantly. The lights dimmed out as the power lines snapped and the deafening machinery died. Headlights began streaking the blackness.

Shouting and panic erupted from his fellow miners but he knew it was already too late. Trapped in a sealed shaft he didn't scream instead he removed his hardhat and sat down next to the cave in. He couldn't seem to slow down his heart as a group of other miners approached. All that remained now was a long wait or a short one depending on how he looked at it.

Jane Doe asphyxiated in that mine with twenty-one other men. It was hard to claim she was unfulfilled as she lived more lives than anyone else on the planet. What she didn't know was a man existed in the world who remembered her before she became a cipher, and to this day he loved the image of who she used to be. The fact he didn't know her anymore was merely the biting, thorny period at the end of the sentence that was an unwilting but expired memory.


End file.
